Saying Goodbye to the Body

I died a month ago, but we’re looking up at
 the same night sky—the arsenal of stars
                                              softly bicker.
The Milky Way is unsure
of my new home, in the woods.        

          This spring night           my bones sing,
trying their hardest to send a beacon,

a signal, an I’m here. The swampland claims me,
pulls me in and under. My skin once

cradled by the muck held the truth,
 but it has left me now, said its goodbye

to my bones. I unwind and call to the sun to
draw me to surface, among the June bugs 

and leaflitter. I feel the stumble, the footsteps
          brushing through the woods, the man.

He’s static when he sees my open mouth,
         my emptiness laid out clean. 

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Terin Weinberg earned her MFA from Florida International University in Miami, Florida. She graduated with degrees in Environmental Studies and English from Salisbury University in Maryland. She has been published in journals including: The Normal School, Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment, Red Earth Review, Dark River Review, Split Rock Review, and Waccamaw. Terin received a 2020 Best of the Net nomination.